


Proof Positive

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Fluff without Plot, Good Peter Hale, Medical Procedures, Non Graphic Birth, Pregnant Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Stiles teases Peter, tells him he's going to be the softest dad ever.He doesn't deny it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what happens when I get annoyed with my husband who is the WORST PATIENT EVER after his surgery. I decided I needed something warm and fluffy, so I wrote it.  
> This follows on from [Til Death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462247/chapters/33410742)

 

 

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Best practice dictates that you cut caffeine out of your diet while pregnant,” the doctor repeats, but he looks distinctly uncertain under Stiles’s withering glare. Peter watches on, amused, as the man swallows and Stiles continues to give him the filthiest of looks.

 _“_ I _need_ my coffee, Doctor _._ ” Stiles folds her arms over her chest, and Peter’s attention is drawn to the extra plumpness of her breasts, the first signs of her pregnancy starting to manifest. It’s ridiculous how pleased it makes him feel, seeing the subtle changes that prove to him that yes, he’s really going to be a father.

The doctor looks to Peter for support, which really, is a foolish move. “Perhaps you could try and make your wife see reason, Mr Hale?”

Peter laughs openly at the man. “My wife is her own person and makes her own decisions. Also, take away her coffee and someone’s going to get hurt. Probably me.”

The doctor takes in Stiles’ mutinous expression. “Fine. But one _weak_ cup a day.”

Stiles gives something that could be a nod, but that Peter knows is really her trying to move the discussion away from her beloved caffeine. He also notes she’s careful not to actually agree. He can tell that she doesn’t like this doctor, could see it in the rigid set of her spine as soon as they walked in. The man’s a locum, and they probably won’t see him again, but Stiles’s regular doctor’s away for another three weeks, and neither of them were willing to wait that long to officially confirm her pregnancy.

They get through the rest of the appointment, find out Stiles is six weeks along and get an approximate due date, and walk out with a handful of antenatal care pamphlets, a referral to a female Ob/gyn, and Stiles wearing a scowl that puts Peter’s wolfed out face to shame.

The receptionist asks if they’d like to book another appointment, and after they share a look, Stiles says, “We’ll call you,” which Peter accurately translates as _When hell freezes over_. He can’t say he blames her – the man had about as much warmth and compassion as an Easter Island statue.

Peter’s mind ticks over as he figures out how to get the best care for his pregnant wife. Even thinking about the phrase _pregnant wife_ puts a stupid grin on his face, and Stiles nudges him with a grin of her own, the scowl leaving her face as she observes his moonstruck expression. “Let me guess. You’re thinking about the baby, right?”

“Absolutely.” He doesn’t even try to hide how happy he is about the whole thing – what would be the point? He already spent the entire weekend after Stiles broke the news to him rubbing his hands over her stomach, listening for a heartbeat even though it’s far too early even for werewolf ears, and having to sit on his hands to stop himself from calling everyone he knows to share the news.

On that, Stiles had been firm – “We tell my Dad, but nobody else till I’m twelve weeks. _Even_ Derek,” she’d added, because she knows him too well by now. Peter had grudgingly agreed, even though his wolf had sulked about not getting to shout it from the rooftops. Later, he knows, he can crow all he wants.

For now though, it’s their secret, something precious and hidden.

He finds he doesn’t really mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They tell Noah. He’s even more pleased than Peter, if such a thing is possible. He grins from ear to ear, repeating, “ A Grandpa. I’m gonna be a _Grandpa_ ,” before immediately making plans to convert Stiles’s room into a nursery, for when they need him to babysit.

It’s adorable.

 

* * *

 

 

At twelve weeks, they do an ultrasound.  Peter clutches the printout tightly as they leave the specialist’s office. He can’t stop staring it. His child, right there in black and white. More proof that this is really happening, as if he needed it.

He can see it in the way Stiles is starting to gain a definite curve to her previously flat belly, can _taste_ it on her. Stiles literally grew overnight four days ago, squawking indignantly when she went to get dressed for work and had to wear her ‘fat pants’ because a belly was there where there wasn’t one before. Peter thinks he probably should have been a little more sympathetic, but instead he’d just kissed her stomach and grinned stupidly.  They already spend most evenings with Stiles laying on the couch sighing with relief while Peter runs his hands up and down her front and massages her aching breasts, drawing any lingering pain away, splaying his other hand protectively over her developing curves, before moving on to massaging her feet.

Stiles pokes gentle fun at him, telling him he’s got to be the most doting husband alive. It’s quite possible he will be. He feels more love for his child than he ever thought possible, and sometimes it overwhelms him, the knowledge that he’s going to be responsible for another life. But then Stiles will kiss him and call him Softwolf, and he’ll remember that he’s not in this alone.

 

* * *

 

 

When the time comes, they don’t even get to tell the pack.

They walk in the door of Derek and Lydia’s place and Derek stops dead where he is and then spins on his heel, head cocked, listening. Peter knows he’s hearing the heartbeat - Peter’s been able to hear it for a few days now. Derek looks at Peter, eyes wide and eyebrows raised in query. Peter gives a tiny, self satisfied smile and raises one brow in reply. Derek beams and his face breaks into a wide smile. Next to Peter, Stiles mutters, “I swear to god, you two and your Halespeak,” but she’s grinning.

Lydia looks between the two of them, her eyes lingering on Stiles’s slightly rounded stomach. “Wait, are you two…”

“Expecting, yes,” Peter confirms, feeling a sweep of pride. Lydia’s face lights up and she lets out a squeal.  Derek lifts Stiles clear off the ground when he hugs her, and Peter doesn’t quite manage to hold back the low growl.  Derek swiftly puts Stiles down and throws an apologetic look Peter’s way. Stiles just rolls her eyes, calls Peter overprotective, and then kisses him with a fondness that tells him she doesn’t really mind.

 Later, he sees Derek murmuring in Lydia’s ear, eyes trained on Stiles and wearing a hopeful expression. Lydia tilts her head to the side, considering, and Peter hears her say, “Perhaps.” Derek breaks into a grin, and whatever he whispers next has Lydia blushing and giggling, before telling him to _behave, Derek._

Peter doesn’t have to be a genius to figure it out. He suspects the pack will be growing again, sooner rather than later.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles tells her co-workers. Peter thinks it’s unfair that he’s _still_ not allowed to come to the station to share the news, but she shakes her head. “Nope. I saw you with Derek. It’ll only take one deputy touching my stomach for you to go all growly.”

Peter tries to argue, but Stiles ignores him.  

She probably has a point.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The specialist hums. “Baby’s very big for sixteen weeks. Are you sure about your dates?”

“Totally,” Stiles assures her. The doctor’s not wrong though. She’s much bigger than she thought she’d be at four months. Even her dad’s jokingly told her to lay off the breakfast burritos. (What? She’s pregnant, and she’s starving. She’s _allowed_.) The thought of twins briefly crossed her mind.

“Hmm. And you say you can feel the baby moving?”

At that, Stiles smiles. At first she’d thought the light flutterings were just gas, but then she’d felt a distinct kick – tiny, but unmistakable. Peter had been most put out because he couldn’t feel it, but Stiles thinks it’s only fair that she gets this for herself, since he can hear the baby’s heartbeat and she can’t.  “Definitely.”

The doctor raises her eyebrows. “In that case, I’m afraid I’m going to have to refer you on to another doctor. Looks like this little one takes after their father.” At Stiles’s blank look, she clarifies. “Given baby’s size, what you’ve told me about your increased appetite, and now early movement, I’m almost certain the baby’s a werewolf.”

Stiles hears Peter’s sharp intake of breath. “A Were?”

The doctor smiles at them. “We’d need to do a blood test to be sure, but it’s likely, yes.”

Stiles is stunned. She knew this was a possibility, but she hadn’t actually given it much thought, too caught up enjoying the newness of pregnancy and the way Peter’s doting on her. She wasn’t prepared for news like this. She turns to Peter for support, to see him wearing an expression that can’t be called anything other than radiant. He reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing softly. “We’re having a wolf, sweetheart.”

Stiles bites her lip, mind going a million miles an hour, full of questions about what this means for her pregnancy. “Yeah.”

Peter catches her hesitance and frowns. “Is that - are you unhappy about it?”

Stiles can see the doubt in his eyes, the insecurity that he hides so well, and she won’t have that, not about this. Stiles leans over and cups his face in her hand, just for a second. “No, idiot. I love the idea of a baby wolf. But this changes some things. Right?” she addresses the doctor.

The woman nods. “Significantly. A typical werewolf pregnancy is around 26 weeks instead of forty. As I say, I’m no expert, so I’d like to hand your care over to a colleague of mine.” She opens a drawer and hands Stiles a card. _Dr Michael Watson_ is printed across the front.

Now it’s Stiles’s turn to frown. “I really wanted a female doctor for this. That’s why I chose you.”

The doctor shakes her head. “Unfortunately, it’s not an area many people specialize in. I don’t think there’s anyone else in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles knows it’s not a big deal, but she can’t help feeling somewhat cheated. She wants a woman doctor, okay? She’s always been squirrelly at the thought of a strange man poking around in her lady parts –it’s something she’s intensely private about, except where her husband’s concerned. It looks like she’ll have no choice, though. She turns her thoughts back to her more immediate concerns. “So, that means the baby’s due in _ten weeks_?”

The doctor nods, and the enormity of it hits Stiles. It’s as if someone just hit a fast-forward button on her life, and stole a chunk of it. She thought she had more time, and now it turns out she’s practically staring down the barrel of childbirth. A wave of panic washes over her. “But I’m not ready! We haven’t chosen a name, and the nursery isn’t even started, and god, I haven’t booked Lamaze classes – this wasn’t meant to be happening yet!” To her horror, she feels tears threatening, and god, she doesn’t want to be one of those pregnant women who cries at the drop of a hat, but she can’t seem to stop it.

But then Peter’s crouched in front of her, cradling her face just as she’d done to him only moments ago, and he’s leaning his forehead against hers, his other hand stroking the back of her neck. “Shh, sweetheart. It’ll be fine. We still have time for all those things.”

“But it’s too soon,” she sniffles.

“We organized a wedding in ten days. We can prepare for a baby in ten weeks with time to spare,” Peter soothes. Stiles lets her head drop forwards under his hand, and allows Peter’s touch to calm her. He’s stupidly good at it, after two and a half years together knows exactly the spot on her nape that makes her melt.  

She can feel the tension leaving her, the anxiousness in her gut receding, and when Peter presses a tissue into her hand, she dries her tears and takes a deep, cleansing breath.

It’s fine.

Peter’s right - they’ve got this.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles grizzles the whole drive home about what a pain in the ass getting a new doctor will be, how she hates doctors, how this guy’s probably one of those cocky jerks, how the whole thing sucks. When they pull into the driveway Peter turns to her. “Is there anything I can do to make this better?”

“Not unless you can pull a woman werewolf specialist out of your ass, and even you’re not that good,” Stiles grumbles.

Peter hesitates before asking, “You really don’t mind that it’s a wolf baby?”

Stiles sighs, and her shoulders slump. “It’s more that I didn’t know what I was doing anyway, and now I _really_ have no clue. I mean, I was counting on asking Melissa for advice, but now I can’t even do that, she’s never had a wolf. So now I’ve got no one, really. But the part about the baby being a wolf? I’m happy about _that_.”

“Do you really mean that? It doesn’t bother you?”

“Husband, I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. We’re having a baby wolf, and I’m thrilled. Shocked, but thrilled.” Stiles smiles at him, reassuring him she means it, and she doesn’t imagine the way Peter practically melts with relief.

When they head inside Peter gets that look in his eye that means he’s up to something, and disappears into his office, saying he has some calls to make. He closes the door, which he only rarely does, so Stiles figures he’s arranging some sort of surprise to cheer her up and leaves him to it. Peter thinks he’s being subtle every time he does it, but Stiles is wise to his tricks. He’ll be on the phone arranging a delivery of enough roses to sink the Titanic or for Kenny G to come and serenade her, Stiles just knows it. (She really had loved the roses – they’d filled the entire living room.)

He’s in there most of the afternoon, so Stiles takes the opportunity to catch another nap. The extreme tiredness that’s plagued her the last few weeks suddenly makes a lot more sense.  When she wakes, she has a snack. Meal. Whatever. Stiles has been eating everything in sight, and had been frankly surprised that she didn’t seem to be gaining weight anywhere except her belly. Now that she knows she’s having a werewolf though, it all adds up.

The doctor has assured her that for a wolf parent, the tiredness and hunger are completely normal. She sighs at the thought of having to leave this doctor, who she actually _likes_ , and getting to know a new doctor, going through the song and dance of establishing a relationship with him. She’s sitting at the kitchen table staring morosely at the card when Peter comes out of the office, satisfaction radiating off him.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says without preamble.

Stiles claps her hands to her face and widens her eyes comically. “Whaaat? You, arrange a surprise? Never!”

Peter huffs in amusement. “Well I mean, if you’re not interested in getting in to see one of the top werewolf birthing specialists who’s coming out of retirement just to take care of you, I can call her back and cancel?”

The surprise on Stiles’s face is real, this time. “You – what?”

“I made some calls and managed to track her down, although it took some doing. She’s been the Hale family obstetrician for decades, and when I told her my beautiful bride is expecting a cub and that neither you nor I are particularly keen on some strange man treating you, she understood completely, and agreed to see you.”

Stiles surges to her feet and pulls Peter in for a passionate kiss. “Best. Husband. Ever,” she tells him, when she finally lets him go, and she means it. Who else would even _think_ of tracking down a retired ob/gyn just because Stiles wants a female doctor?

Peter preens under the praise. “Only the best for you and our cub, sweetheart. She can see us tomorrow morning, if that’s all right?”

Stiles nods, arms draped around Peter neck, and kisses him again, a tiny flame of desire stirring in her belly. In the last few weeks, food isn’t the only thing Stiles has been hungry for. “You know, I already had a nap,” she tells him.

“Is that so?” Peter arches a brow, and a tiny smirk appears.

“Mhmm. So I’m not sleepy.”  She kisses up the side of Peter’s neck, and slides a hand under his shirt. The play of his back muscles under her fingertips fans the flame into something more, and she presses in close.

Peter’s smirk deepens. “Something you need, sweetheart?”

“Uh huh.”  Stiles pulls away just enough to get her hands on Peter’s belt buckle and undo it, tugging on the ends and using them to lead him across the room towards the stairs. “You.”

Peter follows willingly, swatting Stiles on the ass as they head upstairs. “Always happy to oblige, sweetheart.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles would like to say she isn’t nervous about meeting Dr Braga, but she’d be lying. From the way Peter keeps fussing with his hair, she guesses he feels the same. If the woman agrees to oversee Stiles’s care, it will be a huge relief. Stiles reminds herself to be polite, and do everything she can to win her favor.

They knock on the door and a short, elderly woman answers it. She can’t be more than five feet tall,  black hair threaded through with silver.  Stiles wouldn’t like to guess at her age, not with a Were. Peter smiles at her warmly and she shakes his hand. “Peter, so good to see you.” Then she looks Stiles up and down, and breaks into a wide smile. “And you must be Stiles. I’m glad to meet the woman who’s finally expanding the Hale pack.” She extends a hand and Stiles takes it. “I’m Julia Braga. Come!” She turns and walks into the house without waiting to see if they follow.

As they walk through the house Stiles notes the colourful South American artwork on the wall, the whole house radiating warmth and comfort. She loves the feel of the place, and it gives her high hopes that Dr Braga will be someone she gets on with. Stiles has always had an inbuilt wariness of medical professionals, after everything with her Mom, but she has a good feeling about this.

 Dr Braga leads them back to what looks like a doctor’s office, complete with exam table and stirrups. Just looking at it makes Stiles cringe a little. Dr Braga follows her gaze and laughs softly. “Don’t worry, no need for that today. I just wanted to meet you and talk with you. Besides, I’m curious to see who was brave enough to marry this arrogant boy.” She waves a hand in Peter’s direction. Stiles sees Peter bristle a little, and grins. She likes this woman already. That impression is cemented when Dr Braga leans forwards and says in a conspiratorial whisper, “He was _such_ an ugly baby. Bald, ears like a bat, and his head came to a point. He looked like an angry egg.”

Stiles laughs out loud, and Dr Braga chuckles as well. “He turned out all right in the end, though,” Stiles offers.

“Oh yes, now he’s pretty enough, definitely grew into his ears,” the doctor agrees. She waggles her eyebrows mischievously and adds “Not only his _ears_ were too big for the rest of him when he was born, you know,” and taps the side of her nose.  Stiles chokes on air, Peter goes bright red, and Dr Braga cackles.

 Stiles can tell she and Julia are going to get on just fine.

 

* * *

 

 

The examination, such as it is, is fairly non-invasive, for which Stiles is grateful. Dr Braga asks questions about her diet, sleeping patterns, weight gain, and runs her hands expertly over Stiles’ belly, palpating her bump and muttering to herself. A low growl leaves Peter’s throat and he leaps to his feet when she first lifts Stiles’s shirt and touches her stomach, but Dr Braga simply growls back and flashes her eyes, telling him “You behave, or you get out. We can do this just fine without you, Papa.”

Peter looks taken aback, not an expression Stiles sees very often, and he sits down quietly with a muttered apology. Dr Braga nods. “Better. I saw your bare ass when you were born, baby boy. You don’t scare me.”

Stiles snorts at that. Seeing Peter put in his place has made her morning, honestly. He sits there with a face like he’s sucking on a lemon until Dr Braga sighs and tells him, “Peter, you’re protective. It’s normal. But in here? You trust me, or you go see that other man, let him take care of your wife.” Her voice drips with disdain as she says _other man,_ her Brazilian accent coming to the fore.

“No!” Stiles doesn’t even register she’s spoken until they both look at her, surprised. “I mean. Please, can you? I just. Please?” It’s not even a full sentence, but at the mention of seeing someone else, Stiles has a sudden fear that she won’t get to have this, that she’ll have to go elsewhere. And she just _can’t._

Peter’s out of his seat and next to her in seconds, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. “Whatever you need, darling.” He turns and addresses the doctor. “If you want me to leave, I will. Whatever it takes for Stiles to get the best care.”

The doctor flaps her hand dismissively at Peter. “Please. As if I would let anyone else deliver a Hale cub.” She addresses Stiles. “I’ll need to see you every two weeks.”

Stiles’s breath catches. “So, you’ll look after me?”

The doctor gives her a warm smile. “I would be honoured. The pack growing is a great thing, and I’m happy to see it.”

Stiles lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank you so much.”

The doctor gives her a considering look. “So, Stiles. When do you plan on stopping work?”

Stiles blinks. She _had_ been planning on working up till her sixth month, but that’s all changed now. “Um?”

“You tell them today that you’ll finish in two weeks,” Julia declares. “Any longer and you will be too tired to function, it will not be good for the baby. Yes?” Her tone lets Stiles know it’s not a suggestion.

“Yes?”

“Excellent.” Dr Braga turns to Peter. “You. You will make sure she doesn’t overdo it, even when she argues. And she _will_ argue, she has that look about her.”

“Oh, Stiles does love to argue,“ Peter agrees, grinning now that he’s not the one in the firing line.

Dr Braga nods. “She wouldn’t be married to you if she didn’t have fire in her belly. Now Peter, you can leave us, go wait outside. Come back in half an hour. Stiles is going to ask me all her questions now, without you flapping those big ears of yours.”

Peter opens his mouth, takes in the doctor’s firm gaze, closes it and leaves the room. As soon as he’s gone, Dr Braga turns to Stiles with an amused expression. “He dotes on you, yes?”

Stiles nods, grinning. “He’s hopeless.”

“Good. Having this baby will make you more tired than you’ve ever been, and Peter will want to help. Let him. His wolf needs it, and so you do. Now, ask me all your questions. I’m sure you have plenty.” She extends a hand across the desk and takes Stiles’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Stiles takes a moment to think. She has no idea about any of this stuff, apart from what she’s read, and she’s desperately grateful for the chance to ask questions.  She decides what she wants to know most desperately, and she asks. “How do you feel about pregnant women and coffee?”

By the time Peter comes back and knocks hesitantly on the office door, she and the doctor are laughing together, Stiles giggling helplessly at the baby photos of Peter that Dr Braga had dug out when she knew they were coming to see her.  

He really was an ugly baby.

 

* * *

 

 

Before they leave, the doctor tells Peter to wait. “I have something for you.” She goes back into the house and when she emerges, she’s carrying a photo album. She hands it to him. “I’ve always taken pictures of the babies I deliver. I thought you should be the one to have these. “

Peter opens the album, looks inside, and slams it firmly shut again. His voice is thick when he asks, “Is this -?”

“The Hale babies, yes. Going back to your father’s time. It occurred to me when you called that you might want them, since the other copies were probably lost.” _In the fire_ goes unspoken.

Peter squeezes his eyes tightly shut for a moment, but Stiles can still see the haze of unshed tears when he opens them. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely, dragging Julia in for a crushing hug.

Julia hugs him back for a long moment, before pulling away. She reaches up and ruffles Peter’s hair, messing up his perfect style. “They should be with you. And soon, we’ll have another picture to add, yes?”

“Yes,” Peter says quietly, one hand clutching the photo album tightly and the other sneaking around Stiles’s waist to pull her close. “I’m so very lucky.”

Stiles secretly thinks she is, too.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the updated ratings - what can i say? Peter does what he wants.

 

Is there anything more annoying to a pregnant woman than someone who thinks they know what’s best _actually_ turning out to know what’s best?

Stiles highly doubts it.

She feels like she should be offended by the smug look her Dad sports when she tells him she’s starting her maternity leave. Just last week, he’d suggested that she cut her hours right back. “You look worn out, kid,” he’d insisted. “You’re growing a baby in there, and that takes it out of a person.  You need to _rest_.”  Stiles hadn’t bothered to dignify that with a reply, but she _had_ taken the chocolate stash out of his desk drawer and disposed of it in retaliation. (disposed of, ate - _potayto, potahto)_

The way her Dad fusses is cute, but also annoying as hell. He’s actually been worse than Peter, hovering every time she so much as moves a chair, telling her not to overdo it, that’s his grandchild she’s carrying. As if she could forget, with the framed picture of the ultrasound proudly displayed on his desk.

Anyway. He’s far too pleased with the news she’s leaving, in her opinion. Stiles can’t get too upset though, because when she tells him exactly why she’s stopping work early, that the baby will be here a lot sooner than anyone expected, the first thing he says is “That must be a hell of a shock, kiddo. Are you okay?”

His genuine concern makes her melt just a little. “Mostly. I’m still getting used to the idea. I mean, it’s not like I have any choice,” she tells him wryly.

“Well if you need me for anything, or any help getting ready, let me know okay?” Her father watches her as she picks up her coffee mug and frowns at her. “Aren’t you meant to be limiting that stuff?” It’s been one of the petty joys of Noah’s life that for the past four weeks he’s been the one who gets to say to Stiles, _‘Should you be having that?’_ instead of the other way around.

Stiles takes a long drink before shaking her head. “Not anymore. The upside of a wolf baby, I guess. Dr Braga said that werewolf babies are different, I can drink all the coffee I want. She also said that it’s cruel and unusual punishment to try and take it from me when I need it the most.” She clutches her mug defensively.

“Dr Braga, huh?”

“Yep. She’s my new specialist - Peter found her. She delivered all the Hales, and she specializes in Werebabies. He managed to talk her out of retirement for me, Dad.” As she says it, it strikes her again what a _Peter_ thing it is to do – bending the world to his will to take care of the ones he loves.

Her Dad obviously thinks the same. “Talked her out of retirement? That’s quite a feat.”

She shrugs. “You’ve met my husband, right?”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter throws himself headfirst into impending parenthood. It’s stupidly sweet.

Stiles comes home from work one day to find a stack of empty boxes from a clothing website, and the table filled with stacks of washed and folded baby clothes. Onesies, hats, mittens, tiny designer jeans, t shirts with adorable slogans, pyjamas with tiny wolves, the list goes on.

“Peter? Why are there literally a hundred baby outfits on the table?”

He only looks slightly sheepish when he says, “Internet?”

She raises a brow at him.

“Derek,” he adds, as if that’s any explanation. When Stiles just continues to stare, he says, “He sent me a link to some footie pyjamas with wolves on them, wanted to know if I thought you’d like them. And I clicked on the link, and well, _Wolfhaven_. That’s the name of the website. They specialise in werewolf themed babywear,” he explains. “And I started to shop, and I couldn’t bring myself to put any of it back?”

Stiles looks at the tiny articles. Peter has impeccable taste, she’ll give him that. It’s all designer brand names, down to the last stitch. She can’t help herself - she starts to laugh, holding her belly as she shakes with mirth. Peter shoots her an offended look. ” Well, excuse me for wanting to be prepared!”

Stiles shakes her head, still laughing, and wordlessly takes Peter by the hand, leading him into the room that’s going to be the nursery. She opens the closet door and pulls out several bags of tiny garments, handing them to Peter. He raises his eyebrows.  “I’ve been collecting these for weeks, waiting till I had somewhere to put them. And I’m laughing because we both have zero impulse control. We’re having a _baby_ , Peter!”

He places a hand on her rounded belly. “We certainly are, sweetheart. And a well dressed one, apparently.”

 

 

She finds him later with one of the tiny onesies in his hand, staring at it. “These can’t possibly fit,” he says, one finger stroking a tiny sleeve. “Nobody’s this small.”

Stiles places a hand on his shoulder where he’s sitting and looks at the onesie. “It’s not _that_ small. And Dad says I was only five pounds when I was born, so maybe this’ll be a small baby as well.” Stiles is secretly hopeful.

Peter shakes his head minutely. “I hate to tell you this sweetheart, but I don’t like your chances. Hale babies run big. Derek was ten pounds.” Stiles winces at that. “And I’m afraid I was twelve and a half.”

Stiles puts her hands on her stomach instinctively. “ _Twelve pounds_?” She repeats, incredulous.

“And a half.”

Stiles let’s out a shaky sigh and addresses her belly. “I just hope you take after your momma, kid. Because it sounds like your big ugly father was a freaking nightmare.”

Peter wisely doesn’t respond.

* * *

 

 

When Stiles comes home from work a week later, Peter takes her by the hand and leads her to the bedroom, which _yes please_ , these days she’s always up for that. But instead of kissing her and holding her like he definitely should be doing, he hands her a heavy, round contraption with straps and buckles, and says “Strap me in?”

Stiles turns the object over in her hands. “Peter, what the hell?”

“It’s an empathy belly. I read about them, and I wanted to understand what this is like for you and show my support. So I’ll be wearing this for the next week.”

Stiles eyes the object doubtfully, but Peter has that determined set to his jaw, so she helps him shrug it on over his shirt, and straps it on. “Have at it, I guess.”

He raises and lowers his arms a few times, takes a couple of steps across the room, sits on the bed and then stands again. “This doesn’t seem so bad,” he comments. “Uncomfortable, but not terrible.”

Stiles thinks it’s simultaneously the most romantic and the dumbest thing she’s ever heard, and she can’t help but have a little fun. (What? She’s not allowed to drink, she has to keep herself entertained somehow.) She waits till Peter’s settled in his chair, and then says, “Baby, I’m so thirsty. Can you get me a drink?” She places her hands on her belly, and she can see Peter bite back a sigh as he struggles to his feet.

Five minutes later, just when he’s gotten comfy, she asks him to go get her a snack. Ten minutes after that, she’s cold and needs a cardigan. Ten minutes after _that_ , she’s too hot, could he turn on the air conditioning?

Then she needs her book. No, not that book, the other book. And then she’s thirsty again. Peter huffs pointedly and a tiny groan escapes him as he gets up again. He’s developing a waddle.

Stiles smirks, and waits to see how long it is before Peter admits defeat. _‘This doesn’t seem so bad,_ ’ my ass.

He lasts two hours.

He’s fidgeting long before then, unable to get comfy, irritated by the bump in front of him that stops him bending over properly. All the getting up and down for Stiles has him wincing and placing a hand in the small of his back. Thanks to the lead weights that press against his bladder, he has to go pee half a dozen times.

But the last straw is when he goes to walk upstairs, misses the bottom step completely because he can’t see it, and falls ass over teakettle, landing with a solid thump.  He unstraps the belly and tosses it aside, glaring at Stiles, who’s hooting with laughter. “I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he snaps.

“You’re a werewolf, of course you’re fine. That was hilarious,” Stiles shoots back. “Now put the stupid stomach away and come over here and cuddle me.”

He does, and once Stiles has finished laughing at him, he takes her upstairs and massages cocoa butter into her stomach and breasts, and calls her brave and strong and wonderful, and Stiles already knew she was all those things thank you very much, but it’s still nice to hear it out loud.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles finally caves and goes shopping for maternity wear when she’s looking for something to wear and it turns out she only has two pairs of sweats and one set of work pants that Tara loaned her that fit. “Fine,” she mutters, exasperated. “Peter!” she calls. “I’m going shopping. You coming?”

Peter comes inside from where he’s been working over the punching bag, a light coating of perspiration covering him. “Where are we going?” he asks, pulling off the gloves.  He looks good, and Stiles briefly contemplates dragging him to bed instead, but resolutely pushes the thought away, knowing she can’t afford to get distracted.

“We’re going to get something that fits, because I only have sweats, and apparently I can’t wear just that for the next nine weeks.”

Peter looks her up and down. “Hmm. Yes, you’ve definitely grown, even in the last few days.”

Stiles fakes outrage. “Are you calling me _fat?_ ”

Peter walks over and pulls her close. “I’m calling you gorgeously, magnificently, plump, and wondering if you’d consider putting off going out so I can take you upstairs and kiss you all over, eat you out till you’re a panting, sweaty wreck, and then fuck you till you can’t move. Interested?” He tangles his hands in Stiles’s hair and drags her in for a truly filthy kiss.

God, it’s tempting, to take him up on his offer. But Stiles steels her shaky resolve. She can’t put this off any longer. “Shopping first. Sex later.”

Peter sighs, sounding highly put out.  “Later it is.” He nuzzles against Stiles’s throat. “It’s going to be a short trip though, right?” he asks hopefully.

“I’ll do my best, but it depends if I can find anything.”

Peter gets a determined gleam in his eye. “I’ll bet I can find you something. How about if I can get you outfitted in under an hour, I get to take you to bed for the rest of the day and ravage you. Deal?”

Stiles considers it. “Deal,” she decides. Quite apart from the fact Peter has excellent taste, she does love it when he gets single-minded like this. It’s very arousing, watching him when he’s on a mission.

He showers and dresses, and then drives them straight to the most expensive maternity boutique in Beacon Hills, the one Stiles has been deliberately avoiding. Not that money’s an issue, it’s more that it seems wasteful to spend good money on something she’ll only wear for a couple of months. Peter seems to have no such concerns, though, striding into the store and immediately starting to flip through the racks of clothing.

Stiles takes a seat. She makes no move to help – the deal is that _he’ll_ be able to outfit her, so she figures he can do the work if he wants his reward.

She watches on entertained as he efficiently pulls out maternity jeans, shorts, plain t shirts, and overshirts, occasionally glancing over at Stiles and then at the sizing tag before adding something to the pile.

Within five minutes he presents her with an armful of clothing with a triumphant air. “Try those, sweetheart.” Stiles levers herself out of the chair she’d been resting in and takes the clothing. A saleswoman comes scurrying over, leading her to the change rooms. 

Stiles slips on the first pair of jeans, and sighs with relief. They’re actually comfortable, as well as being stylish. In fact, most of the stuff she tries on is. Stiles has to admit, Peter has an excellent eye for sizes. He’s even managed to find a couple of plaid overshirts, as well as some lighter fabrics for when the weather heats up over the next month or so. Her mind flashes back unbidden to the time she teased Peter with images of her wandering around the house in his shirt with her belly rounded and her breasts heavy with milk, and it occurs to her that in another month it’ll be warm enough to make that vision a reality. She smirks to herself at the thought. She’s going to play that scene out, and Peter’s going to lose his mind.

She’s drawn from her thoughts by a knock on the changing room door. “Everything all right in there, ma’am?” the assistant asks.

Stiles gives herself a mental shake, and opens the door. “I’ll take it all,” she declares.

Peter looks pointedly at his watch over where he’s waiting, and grins widely. They’ve only been here twenty minutes. Stiles grins back and walks over to the counter, dumping everything there. “I guess you were right. Under an hour.”

“I’ll look forwards to collecting my prize,” he whispers throatily, and the sheer _want_ that bleeds into his tone sends shivers down her spine. For all her bravado, Stiles is aware of her expanding waistline, and a tiny part of her cringes when she looks in the mirror. But when Peter looks at her the way he is now, when she can see the lust in his gaze, all that uncertainty disappears.

“I can’t wait,” she murmurs back.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles didn’t have anything planned for the rest of the day anyway, so it’s no hardship spend the afternoon with Peter teasing at her nipples, plucking and pinching and mouthing at them till they’re hard and rosy tipped. It’s a side effect of pregnancy that she’s extra sensitive there, and Peter exploits it fully. He manages to get her to come from that alone.

Stiles melts into the mattress, completely relaxed, and Peter chuckles. “That was just the warmup, sweet thing,” he murmurs as he kisses down her body, and it’s then that he starts to ravish her in earnest.

And he _does_ ravish her. There’s no other word for it

Time slows, perhaps even stops, as Peter devotes himself to pleasing her. Stiles loses count of how many times she comes after the third orgasm. All she knows is Peter’s playing her body like a fiddle, touching her exactly the way she craves, putting his mouth on her clit, fingering her so expertly that she can’t see straight, teasing her until she’s begging him for more, before finally sinking into her, deep and slow and so, so satisfying.

He fucks her from behind, grinding his hips against her, kissing the back of her neck while he takes his time, lazily pumping in and out. It goes on for what might be hours, and it feels divine, the drag of his cock against her sensitive inner flesh filling her perfectly. She makes tiny breathy noises, and Peter growls against her nape. The undeniable possessiveness of the sound makes her shudder, makes her come. She didn’t think she had another orgasm left in her, but her body’s full of surprises, it seems.

Peter fucks her gently through it, and his thrusts speed up. It’s not long before she feels him tense behind her as he comes. The both lay for a moment before exhaling at the same time, letting out matching sighs of contentment. Peter lays a row of kisses along her shoulder and she hums in response. Peter’s hands drift up to her breasts, and she knocks them away. “Nope. Sleepy.”

Peter chuckles. “All right then sweetheart, you rest. And when you’re wake up, maybe we can do it all again.”

“Greedy,” Stiles accuses, but she’s smiling.

“Can you blame me, when you’re so utterly gorgeous?” Peter asks. “And you _did_ agree that I could ravage you all day.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Stiles sighs.

And, well. Stiles has always been a woman of her word.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles aches everywhere. Her belly is stretched and taut, and her feet have started to swell.  When she saw Dr Braga yesterday, the woman had told her that it was all to be expected, and that she was pleased with her progress. Peter had been there, and been remarkably well behaved as the doctor touched Stiles’s belly and measured her growth.

When Stiles asked her, the doctor confirmed what Peter had alluded to - that Hale babies tended to be on the big side. But then she’d surprised Stiles by saying, ”But of course, Peter will be there. He will draw the pain for you during labor, yes?”

“Is that allowed?” For some reason, Stiles had gotten it into her head that Peter wouldn’t be able to help her.

Dr Braga had smiled widely. “Of course, its allowed! Why use drugs, when we can just make Papa help out?” Stiles had let out a sigh of relief at the news. Dr Braga continued, “He will want to help you, so we will let him. Better for the baby, better for everyone.”

Peter had taken her hand and nodded. “Anything you need, sweetheart.”

Stiles suddenly feels a lot less concerned about the whole birthing process.

 

* * *

 

By the time its Stiles’s last day of work, she’s glad to be done.

She has plans for tomorrow, and they include a whole lot of nothing. She’s going to sleep in, then maybe sleep in some more, if the baby will let her. He (she?) has become increasingly active lately, and Stiles can now feel solid kicks instead of the light taps from before.  Peter’s thrilled of course, will spend ages with his hand pressed against her stomach, waiting to feel the point of a heel against his skin, grinning like an idiot the whole time.

Stiles has taken the doctor’s advice, and indulged Peter’s need to caretake. It’s not like it’s a hardship. As soon as she’s in the door from work every night he’ll rub her feet, feed her something to tide her over till dinner, massage her belly, and then kiss her hungrily.

Some days, she’ll shove him away, more interested in a nap that anything he has to offer. Other days, she’ll pull him closer and kiss up the side of his neck in a way she knows drives him wild, and on those days, he’ll lead her upstairs carefully and take her to bed, give her what she needs.

So that’s what she’s expecting on the last day of work, to walk into a doting husband. She’s definitely not expecting Peter to greet her at the door with the news they’re going away for four days. “Why?” she asks, wondering if there’s something she’s forgotten.

“Two reasons, sweetheart. One, the nursery’s getting decorated this weekend and I don’t want you anywhere near paint fumes. And two, I thought maybe you’d like a weekend away while we don’t need to worry about babysitters.” Peter holds up the tickets. “Niagara Falls again, Mrs Hale? I seem to remember you had a lot of fun last time we were there.” He waggles his eyebrows and smirks.

Stiles takes a second to parse all that. “Who’s going to be here to oversee the painters?” Because she knows darn well that Peter wouldn’t trust just anyone.

“Your father, actually. And Derek’s going to come and help him assemble the furniture. Between the two of them I think they’ll be intimidating enough that there’ll be no paint dripped on the new carpet.”

Stiles leans against Peter, resting her head on his shoulder. “Hmmm. Do I have time to lay down for a few minutes?”

“Of course, darling. Shall I pack for you?” Stiles considers it. 

“Please? You pack, I’ll rest my eyes. Have I told you you’re wonderful?” Stiles mumbles into Peter’s chest.

“I have my moments.” Then he’s guiding her gently to the couch and laying her down, and the next thing Stiles knows Peter’s shaking her awake and offering her coffee and a grilled cheese. “We really do need to get going.” Peter’s almost apologetic, but now that she’s slept, Stiles feels much better. She drinks the coffee and eats the sandwich, and after a quick shower to freshen up they’re on the way to the airport.

Peter’s booked business class, of course. He guides Stiles though the gate and up the steps of the plane with a hand on the small of her back, and Stiles just rolls her eyes. The flight is a smooth one, and soon enough they’re booking into the same hotel they came to for their honeymoon.  Unlike on their honeymoon though, there’s none of the nervousness, none of the uncertainty about whether they can make this thing work between them.

They already have.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend four days mooching around the Niagara Falls, taking their time.

They go back to the butterfly house. Stiles thinks about suggesting the Falls, but them she thinks about the bus ride, and the crowds, and quietly decides against it. Instead, she and Peter spend time deciding whether they want to know the baby’s sex, arguing lazily over baby names, and watching Stiles’s stomach, fascinated when it moves seemingly of its own volition as the baby kicks and kicks and _kicks_ in a brand new flurry of energy that seems endless.  Peter blames the sugar in the massive amounts of maple syrup Stiles is consuming, and suggests she cut back.

Stiles tells Peter to _bite me._

He does.

 She ends up with teeth shaped bruises on both breasts, and it’s a perfect souvenir of their trip.

 

* * *

 

 

The nursery’s perfect. Derek and Noah stand there waiting for Stiles to say something, but for once she’s speechless. Tears threaten, and she can feel her bottom lip start to tremble. Peter sees, and silently hands her a tissue – it seems she can’t turn around without crying these last few weeks.  

Stiles wipes her eyes, silently cursing her stupid hormones, and pulls Derek into a hug, and then her dad. She manages a quiet, “Thank you,” and the pair of them beam at her, pleased with the job they’ve done.

The room’s exactly as Stiles pictured it, and after her dad and Derek leave, she gets a little misty eyed when she opens the drawers and finds all the tiny clothes laid out and waiting. She catches Peter’s eye and bites her lip.  “Are we ready for this?” she whispers.

“Probably not,” he admits, “But when has that ever stopped us?”

Stiles thinks about their spur of the moment wedding, borne of desperation, and she has to admit, he has a point. Peter moves so he’s standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist as he whispers in her ear.  “Honestly sweetheart? Even if we're not ready, I still can’t wait.”

 

* * *

 

There are some thing that it might have been nice to know about before they happened, Stiles thinks.

Like the nightmares.

Nobody mentioned the vivid dreams, the ones straight out of old horror movies, where the baby’s born dead or deformed, or bursts out of her chest like an alien. The ones where she screams and pushes but there’s nothing there, and it turns out there never was a baby, and she runs to all her friends, but they insist she’s crazy, that she was never pregnant at all.

She wakes from that last one screaming. Peter’s awake in seconds, cradling her and soothing her, as she sobs out that it was so _real_ , and the baby was _gone_. It takes her half an hour to stop crying, and the whole time he holds her and makes shushing noises, until finally she begins to calm down. She can’t stay in bed though, so Stiles goes and sits in the rocking chair in the nursery with her hands on her stomach, the bump reassuringly real under her hands, and she rocks herself gently and looks at the framed baby pictures of her and Peter that her dad hung on the walls, until her heart’s stopped thundering, and she doesn’t feel quite so much like throwing up.

She hears soft footfalls and Peter comes into view, leaning against the door frame. “Hot chocolate, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, and she gives him a watery smile and nods a silent yes.

Eventually she suggests Peter go back to bed without her, but he just shakes his head and guides her to the couch, holding her close, stroking her back, and it’s several hours before either of them gets any more sleep.

Then there are the dreams where she _has_ the baby, and he’s perfect, but somebody takes him from her, snatches him on a street corner or steals him away in the night.

Thoughts of her mother’s illness haunt her, and she starts to wonder if the dreams are a symptom. They get worse and worse, and in the end, she rings Dr Braga, afraid there’s something seriously wrong with her.

Dr Braga assures her that it’s all perfectly normal, if disconcerting, and that it will pass, given time. “Make sure to cuddle that nice husband of yours before you sleep,” she advises. “Feeling secure can help with this.”

Stiles finds that it _does_ help, being close to Peter, so come bedtime, she clings to Peter like a limpet. He, of course, doesn’t object at all, and helpfully tells her that he’s read somewhere that orgasms increase the likelihood of dreamless sleep.

It seems like a theory worth exploring.

For science.

 

* * *

 

At twenty weeks, they find out the sex.

They’re having a boy.

Peter’s smile could light up the stage at the Oscars.

 

* * *

 

 

At twenty two weeks, Peter starts peacocking, and Stiles doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it .

“Excuse me, do you mind? My wife’s pregnant, can we get past?” Peter steers Stiles deftly to the table at the coffee shop, pulling her chair out and helping her sit. It’s the fourth person he’s guided her past while uttering “My wife’s expecting,” or some variation thereof.

Stiles rolls her eyes. “You do know I’m capable of walking from the car to the table without you guiding me like I’m a missile, right? And if you could stop proclaiming your virility every five seconds, that’d be great, too.”

Peter frowns. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, you kept your hand on my back all the way from the car, and made a point of telling everyone within five yards that your wife is pregnant. I can’t decide if you’re being overprotective or boasting about your sperm levels.”

Peter looks genuinely taken aback. “Did I?” Stiles can see the wheels turning. ”I hadn’t realized. Would you believe me if I said it was the wolf taking over?”

Stiles just shakes her head fondly. “Actually, I would. You’re far more…” she chooses her words carefully, “…primal, lately. You flashed your eyes and snarled at the barista yesterday.”

Peter glances downward and he mumbles something, but Stiles doesn’t quite catch it.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Peter leans in closer. “I said, he was _checking you out_ ,” he hisses.

Stiles raises her eyebrows in surprise. “You think the barista was checking me out,” she repeats slowly. She places her hands on her distended stomach for emphasis. “ _Me_.”  She stands up then, swaying slightly, and says, “Take me home, right now.”

Peter scrambles to his feet, an arm around Stiles’s shoulders as he guides her. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why are we leaving?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything till they’re in the car. Then she turns to Peter, grinning widely. “We’re going home because you _actually_ _believe_ that someone would want to check me out, even when I’m the size of a house, and you have no idea how sexy that makes me feel. Now take me home and make love to me, while we can still manage it.”

 

* * *

 

At 23 weeks, Stiles starts getting the urge to spring clean. Peter growls at her when he finds her standing on a kitchen chair wiping down the kitchen cabinets, bodily lifting her down and scolding her, before taking over the task himself while he mutters under his breath. Stiles actually feels a little bad about it, but the chair was _right there_ , and she almost couldn’t help herself.

 “Stiles is nesting,” Dr Braga says when Peter tattles on her at their next appointment. “It’s instinct, making sure everything’s ready for the little one.” She frowns at Stiles and waggles a finger at her. “But no more climbing. And no heavy lifting.” Peter gives her a smug look, arms folded. _I told you so_ sits unspoken in the air.

“Fine,” Stiles mutters, suitable chastened.

Dr Braga is slightly apologetic when she tells Stiles she’ll need to have an internal exam. She asks Stiles if she wants Peter to stay. Stiles is torn, but in the end, she shakes her head. Peter’s far too protective right now, and she doesn’t want him upset, no matter how nice it would be to have him here holding her hand.

They send him out, and Stiles gets up on the exam table, only hesitating for a moment. Dr Braga pats the back of her hand in reassurance. “I’ll be quick.” Stiles closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, trying to relax. She’s not entirely successful.

She can feel the doctor’s gloved fingers sliding inside her, and her breathing hitches as she waits for it to get painful, but it doesn’t happen. It’s not comfortable by any means, but it seems like only moments later the doctor’s hand is gone, and she’s tapping Stiles on the knee. “We’re done. Everything looks perfect.”

Stiles lets out a shuddery breath and opens her eyes. “That’s it?” She was expecting so much worse.

The doctor nods. “I told you I’d be quick. Also, I have tiny hands.” She holds one aloft and waggles her fingers, grinning.  Stiles kind of wants to hug her wonderful, tiny handed doctor right now.

They let Peter back in. He can’t help but stride over to the exam table and immediately scent and nuzzle at Stiles where she’s sitting, obviously needing to reassure himself that she’s not upset. Stiles lets him, tilting her head to the side as the doctor watches on, amused. “I’m fine,” Stiles tells him, running her fingers through the short hairs on the back of Peter’s neck and watching the tension drain out of him.

“Stiles is doing beautifully,” the doctor tells him, and Stiles smiles to herself at the way Peter preens, as if he’s somehow responsible for her good health. It’s kind of cute.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s tiny, shining window of about four days where Stiles is unaccountably content. Her bad dreams have departed, and she’s unable to work up even the slightest bit of concern over anything. She finds herself cooing at her belly, and draping herself around Peter with a happy sigh.

There’s even one unforgettable morning where she wakes early to feel Peter wrapped around her back, his morning wood nudging her. She slips out of his arms to go pee, because somethings really can’t wait, but afterwards, when she gets back into bed, she’s overcome with the desire to feel him inside her. Peter stirs as she nudges at him, and he opens one eye and observes her silently. Stiles wraps a hand around his hard length, and says quietly, “Just this once, you get morning sex.” She doesn’t bother to ask if he’s interested, knows it’s something he’s always wanted and that she’s never granted him. But right here, right now, it’s exactly what she needs.

Peter doesn’t speak, just drapes himself across her back and pushes into her from behind, finding her wet and ready. Stiles lets out a gasp at the suddenness of it, hitching one leg forwards so he can get deeper. Peter’s hand finds her clit, and he touches her gently as he rocks into her. Stiles is on a knife edge already, needy and desperate, and she comes with a low grunt at the dual sensations of being teased and fucked all at once.

Peter pants softly in her ear as he slides steadily in and out, and Stiles couldn’t tell you why it feels so good, doesn’t really care, just closes her eyes and rides the wave of endorphins. Before she knows it, she’s coming again, Peter’s skilful fingers working her expertly. She tightens around his hard cock, and Peter hisses between his teeth and tenses as Stiles drags his climax out of him.

They lay there silently, limbs tangled, and in that moment, Stiles is utterly, perfectly happy.

* * *

 

 

Sadly, it doesn’t last. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes up cranky. Even before she gets out of bed, she’s annoyed at everything. She has another week till this stupid baby is born, and she can’t wait to be rid of the alien intruder. Peter’s already up, and he brings her coffee in bed, and what the _hell_ is he so happy about?

He’s smiling like he’s won the lottery, and Stiles guesses it’s easy to smile when you’re not the one who has a bowling ball for a stomach and can’t even get your own shoes on. Smug bastard, grinning just because he’s knocked her up. She hates him right now. She snatches the coffee mug from him, drains it, and holds it out wordlessly. Why is he waiting, doesn’t he _know_ she needs more? God, he’s useless.

He finally seems to get the hint and goes to fetch her another cup. Stiles drags herself out of bed, grumbling at how awkward it is, wondering why she ever agreed to this. It’s not like it’s going to get any better, either. Once the spawn’s out of her, her body’s still ruined, and her life will never be her own again. Who the hell thought this was a good idea?

Peter finally returns with a second cup _,_ and he’s _still fucking smiling_. She kind of wants to slap the smile right off his stupid face, but she restrains herself, just. settling for drinking the coffee silently and then waddling _(she’s fucking waddling now, for Christ’s sake!)_ into the bathroom and showering. Her belly moves and twists under her hands, like some weird entity, and looking at it, she suddenly wants to cry.

So she does, great wracking sobs that she can’t control, loud and ugly and frightening. What the _hell_ is wrong with her? She cries like her heart’s breaking, angry and upset over everything and nothing. She can hear Peter calling her, asking if she’s okay, and she’s so far from okay right now. Her life is a mess, she’s about to have a child, and she’s not ready, might never be ready, but she can’t even put it into words, so she hisses angrily, “Go away!”

He doesn’t though. Peter keeps knocking, and finally he just breaks the lock like it’s no big deal, comes into the bathroom like he has any damned right, and drags Stiles up from where she was _perfectly_ happy curled up on the shower floor and holds her close, heedless of the fact that his clothes are getting soaked.

He cradles her next to his chest, and at his touch, Stiles starts crying again. Peter just makes soothing noises, turning off the water and wrapping her in a bath sheet, sitting on the closed toilet lid and pulling her into his lap, where he rocks her gently.

The foul mood that’s enveloped Stiles since she woke recedes the tiniest bit, and she concedes to herself that maybe Peter’s not the _absolute_ devil incarnate, but he still has a hell of a nerve breaking the lock. She tells him so in between sobs, and he nods and agrees that he’s a terrible person, no really, it’s a matter of public record, and he’s going to be even more of a monster now and insist she eat something and get dressed.

Stiles snaps that she not hungry, but Peter ignores her. He steers them out of the bathroom and down to the kitchen, and it’s the work of minutes to prepare Stiles a grilled cheese while she’s getting dressed.  The asshole rudely uses Red Leicester because he knows she can’t resist it. He’s manipulating her. Stiles knows it, and she tells him so as she bites into the sandwich, which is irritatingly good.

Peter just shrugs and bites into his own sandwich.

Once she’s eaten, Stiles feels marginally better, but she’s still unaccountably annoyed at everything. “Stop looking so worried,” she snaps, when she catches Peter watching her. “I’m fine. I’m just having a bad day.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart, “he replies, and oh, isn’t that _so fucking condescending._

“ _Whatever you say, sweetheart_ ,” she mimics, and has the satisfaction of seeing Peter’s mouth tighten into a thin line. The satisfaction dims a little when he gets up wordlessly and leaves the room. Stiles sits there alone, and tries to convince herself that she likes it that way.

She lasts all of five minutes before she goes looking for him, partly because she’s lonely, partly so she can poke at him some more. She’s being unreasonable, she knows it on some level, but she’s miserable right now and hey, misery loves company, right?

She tracks him down to the office. He’s sitting there on his laptop. “So I’m not good enough to spend time with now?’ she snipes. “Hiding on the internet? Looking up how to deal with a pregnant woman?”

Peter lets out a long sigh. “What do you want from me, Stiles? If I even look at you, I get my head bitten off, and if I leave you alone, I’m hiding. I can’t do anything right today, can I?”

Stiles takes in the slump of his shoulders, and her irritation turns to misery. Peter doesn’t deserve this. It’s not his fault she woke up in a foul temper. “I’m just…done, I guess.” She takes a step closer. “I know, okay? I’m being awful and I can’t stop.”

Peter’s face softens in understanding. “If I suggest this is hormonal, will you hit me?”

Stiles lets out a sigh of her own. “Probably.”

“Well, I won’t suggest it, then. Whatever this is, it’s definitely not hormones.”

Stiles wishes Peter would stop being so damned reasonable – it’s making it almost impossible to stay mad. She extends a hand and runs it down his jaw. “Why can’t you just shout at me so I can shout back?” she grouses. “And could you stop being so fucking pretty?”

“There’s just no pleasing you today, is there?” At least Peter looks amused rather than resigned now.

“No,” Stiles admits.

“Fine. Then how about we just accept for today that I’m a terrible person who’s ruined your life, and you have every right to bitch about it, and I won’t take it personally?” Peter suggests

Stiles shoots him a filthy look, certain he’s mocking her, but he seems completely sincere, and it takes most of the wind out of her sails. She can feel her anger dwindling. “I hate feeling this way.”

Peter pulls her gently forwards and wraps his arms round her. It’s annoyingly comforting, and softens her mood further. “I know, sweetheart. Will it make you feel better if I let you have final say on the name?”

Stiles does perk up a little at that. They’ve narrowed it down to about ten that they both don’t hate, but they can’t agree on a final selection. “You’d do that?”

“For you? The woman who’s giving me a family, putting herself through this? Sweetheart, I’d do anything.”  Peter kisses her forehead gently, and at his admission, just like that, like fairy floss in the rain, Stiles’s foul mood melts away.

“I’m glad you admit I’m doing all the hard work,” Stiles says, snuggling in as close as she can.

“You absolutely are, sweetheart,” Peter agrees. He’s quiet for a moment, before he says, “Let me spoil you today? I think we both need it.”

Stiles doesn’t take much convincing – it sounds like exactly what she needs, not that she’d ever admit it.

 

* * *

 

When Peter said _let me spoil you_ , Stiles expected that he’d maybe take her out for lunch, or rub her feet.

She didn’t expect this.

The man in front of them nudges the tray forwards in a not so subtle attempt to get Stiles to choose something. “Calm the farm there, buddy, I’m thinking,” she snaps.

“Take as long as you need, sweetheart, and if you can’t choose, we’ll just get them all,” Peter says quietly.

Stiles snorts. “No, we will not _just get them all_ , Peter. What the hell would I do with six diamond rings?”

“I’m just saying, baby. Anything you want,” he reminds her, and Stiles isn’t sure whether she wants to kiss him for treating her like a princess, or push him off his stool for showboating. She settles for elbowing him in the side, smirking when he winces.

Stiles looks down at the tray of jewellery again. She keeps coming back to one of two rings, so she picks one up and slips it on. “Very nice, ma’am,” the salesman intones.  She sighs. She really likes it. But she also likes the other one. She slips that on a different finger.

“Why is choosing so hard?” she whines.

Peter takes her hand and looks at the rings in question. “If you can’t choose, you should get both,” he says decisively.

Stiles goes to protest, because she’s seen the price tags, and these aren’t costume pieces, they’re the real deal. But Peter looks so excited to be doing this, and she knows his provider instincts are working overtime. She doesn’t have it in her to say no, not after how mean she was to him earlier. “Both it is,” she agrees.

Peter practically purrs as he pays and arranges for the rings to be sent off and sized. Stiles is lucky that her fingers haven’t swollen, so she doesn’t have to wait till after the baby’s born. “You really are too much sometimes, you know that, right?” she scolds gently.

Peter just pecks her cheek, completely unrepentant at spending thousands of dollars on diamonds. “You deserve it.”

They stop for something to eat and drink, and for Stiles to pee and rest her feet, and then Peter’s driving across town. “Where are we going now?” Stiles asks.

Peter clears his throat. “I know you’re already on edge today, but I may as well address this now. Your jeep’s not suitable driving the baby in. We need to get you something else.” He almost cringes as he says it, and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. When Stiles doesn’t reply, he adds, “We’d never get rid of it, of course, but I was thinking something for day to day running around that’s easier to get a car seat in and out of?”

Peter’s own car already has a baby seat in it, fitted weeks ago because he couldn’t wait.

Stiles is fully aware she’ll need something else to drive, but she also figured there was no rush, not with Peter’s car right there. But hey, if he wants to buy her a new car to calm his wolf down, she can get on board. “I agree. What did you have in mind?” she says casually, and sees his grip loosen a little.

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

Stiles shrugs. “The jeep means a lot. But it’s not what I need right now. Just promise we you won’t go overboard like you did at the jewelers?”

“It’s really all about the safety ratings, sweetheart.” Peter sidesteps the question neatly as he pulls into the BMW dealership. Stiles huffs as she gets out of the car, because she knows he’s not even joking. He won’t allow her to drive anything less than the best, not with their cub on board. Some of her earlier foul temper rises up just for a second, as she wonders why it takes her having a baby to get her into a new car, but she knows that’s not fair, not really. Peter’s offered to replace the jeep numerous times- it’s Stiles who’s refused.

And it’s hard to stay annoyed when the cars on offer are so _very_ pretty. She ends up test driving three, and Peter preens when she picks the one he’d suggested. It doesn’t hurt that it comes in a color that’s almost identical to Roscoe. Peter signs the paperwork without even blinking, and Stiles takes a moment to wonder, how is this her life now? On impulse, she kisses Peter’s hand when he gives her the keys.

“Does that mean you’ve forgiven me for whatever it was I did?” he teases.

Stiles pretends to think about it. “I guess. I’ll admit might have been a _tiny_ bit hormonal today.”

“Oh really? I hadn’t even noticed.” Peter winks, and quickly hops in his car and drives away before Stiles gets a chance to reply.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, when Stiles wakes up, she takes a moment to gauge her mood. As far as she can tell, it’s set firmly at ‘hungry.’ She heaves a tiny sigh of relief. Nobody needs a repeat of yesterday. Peter also watches her carefully when he brings her coffee, and when Stiles smiles and says thank you, she can feel the tension leave the room.

By unspoken agreement, they don’t mention The Bad Day again.

 

* * *

 

Stiles chooses a name, and promptly refuses to tell Peter what it is. She claims that she might still change her mind when the baby’s born, it might not suit him, so Peter will just have to wait and see.

He sulks all afternoon. It’s hilarious.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, when Stiles gets out of bed, she finds it’s particularly warm. She smiles to herself and decides it’s a good day to fulfil one of Peter’s fantasies. Her milk came in last night, and he doesn’t know. She digs in Peter’s drawers for one of his t shirts. She leaves her bra off, and carefully massages her full breasts till there are definite traces of milk leaking out, leaving a damp patch. She doesn’t bother with pants, wandering downstairs in just the t shirt and her panties.

When she walks into the kitchen, she makes sure to put a real sway her step so that her breasts bounce and move under the shirt, and rubs at her belly. Peter’s pulling the eggs out of the fridge when he sees her. His eyes go wide, and he drops the carton. “See something you like?” she teases, and runs a finger over her nipple where she’s leaking through his shirt.

Peter growls, and his eyes flash as he stalks over and presses her against the wall to scent her, before dragging the shirt off over her head and attacking her leaking breasts, lapping eagerly at the beads of milk that are trickling out. Stiles laughs at his enthusiasm, but it’s not long before the laughter turns in moans and whimpers as he teases her nipples, licking and sucking at them till she’s panting,  and then bends her over the kitchen counter, drags her panties down, and proceeds to fuck her excruciatingly slowly, taking his own sweet time, his hands supporting her low slung belly as he eases in and out of her, telling her how hot this is, having a belly full of his cub, and what a damn tease she is, parading round in front of him. Stiles has come twice just from his cock by the time he goes still against her, letting out a low groan as he comes. He leans forward and nips at her earlobe. “You’re wanton, Mrs Hale.”

She grinds back where he’s still inside her. “Mhmm. And you love it.”

“I love _you_ ,” he corrects.

And then he hoists her up like she weighs nothing and carries her to bed, where he spreads her out and worships her body for hours.

Later, before she drifts into an exhausted sleep, Stiles makes a mental note to do that again.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr Braga palpates Stiles’s stomach expertly and hums. “Everything is ready, baby is in position,” she declares.

“So, he’s just taking his time,” Stiles grumbles. The baby’s three days late, and she’s over the whole thing.

“Patience, Mama. He comes when he comes. If he’s not here by the end of the week, we act. But until then, you and your man enjoy your last days of peace. Have fun. Make love.” She winks at that last one, looking pointedly at the hand shaped bruise on Stiles’s hip.

Stiles blushes bright red. Since she pulled her stunt in the kitchen, it’s as if something was unleashed between them. Peter has that predatory gleam in his eye all the time now, and he drags her to bed every chance he gets. She’s just as bad, deliberately walking around topless just to see him lose control. They make it work, belly be damned. Stiles drapes herself over anything she can think of, and Peter ruts into her, panting and cursing. It’s rough and dirty and animalistic, and she loves it. It does occur to her that with her delivery imminent, maybe Peter should stop leaving lovebites on her breasts and thighs. She’d hate to think what the hospital staff would make of it.

“Sweetheart?” Stiles blinks as Peter addresses her, and realises she’s been woolgathering. “I said, I’ll be outside.”  Peter gives the doctor a nod and leaves the room, and Stiles sits up on the edge of the bed.

Once Peter’s gone, Doctor Braga beckons Stiles over to her desk. Stiles takes a seat, and wonders what the doctor wants to talk about. Dr Braga often sends Peter out of the room, says it doesn’t hurt for him to think they’re talking about him, even though it’s normally just to give Stiles a chance to ask any questions that she doesn’t want him privy to. Today though, the doctor is grinning. “I wanted to tell you, little mama, that in this last week, Peter’s wolf, he will come to the fore, but I’m guessing you already know this.”

Stiles nods, and feels herself start to blush again. The doctor waves a hand dismissively. “No need for shyness. This is the best part of a werewolf husband. He will only be satisfied when you are. This is good – it’s natures way of keeping you stretched and ready, will help with an easier birth.”

Stiles swallows nervously. She’s never liked talking about sex. “So, this is normal for a werewolf? Because Peter’s been insatiable.”

“For a wolf, to be insatiable before their cub arrives is perfectly normal. And the semen softens the cervix, so the more he loves on you, the better. When I said make love, I was serious. Go home, lock your doors, and let that man do what he will. You will be thankful when it’s time for the birth.”

Stiles can feel the heat radiating off her cheeks. “Really?”

“Really. As much as you can stand, as much as he can give you.” Dr Braga winks. “Doctor’s orders.”

Stiles stammers out her thanks and her cheeks are still flushed when she leaves. Peter cocks an eyebrow at her, and looks questioningly at the doctor, who flaps a hand at him. “She has your instructions, Peter. I’m sure you will have no problem following them.”

 

* * *

 

 

He really doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles goes into labor at 2 am on Saturday morning. She’s pulled from sleep by the tightening of her belly, strong and persistent, but she doesn’t wake Peter straight away, wanting to be sure. When the same thing happens at two minute intervals three more times, she nudges at him. “It’s time, Papa Hale.”

He sits bolt upright, and has them in the car and on the way to the hospital within fifteen minutes. His hair is unkempt, his shirt’s inside out, and he’s grinning from ear to ear. The doctor meets them there, and when she examines Stiles, she tells her she’s over halfway dilated already, having slept through her contractions. “Your husband must have followed my orders very thoroughly,” she says, with a wicked smile and a glance at Peter.

He doesn’t even have the good grace to deny it, still grinning broadly as he nods in agreement. Stiles thinks about snapping that this isn’t a social occasion, thank you very much, but then he takes her hand and looks into her eyes, and she sees the affection and concern there, and wisely decides to just shut her mouth for once.

In the end, after all the worrying and the nightmares, the whole thing takes less than an hour.  Peter pulls her pain, and when it’s too much for him to handle alone, Dr Braga takes the rest. Stiles is woozy and light headed, but when the doctor tells her to push, she pushes, and when she tells her to breathe, she breathes, and their son makes his way into the world squirming and crying with no trouble at all.

He’s eleven pounds, with big bat ears, a shock of chestnut hair, and startling blue eyes that seem to take in everything around him. “He has his father’s ears, poor thing,” the doctor comments as she hands him over to Stiles.

Stiles looks at the squirming bundle on her chest, and wraps an arm protectively around her son. “He’s perfect,” she whispers. He is, too. She can see Peter in him, in the nose, and yes, the ears, but she can see herself too, in the hair, in the shape of his eyes, in the inquisitive expression he’s wearing as one tiny hand waves around wildly.

She turns him so Peter can see, and together they quietly fawn over their son. Peter stretches out a finger and traces it gently down the baby’s fat cheek. “Hello, sweet boy,” he croons. “Do you have a name?”  

Stiles chooses to hand the baby over, because Peter’s practically vibrating with impatience, and he _did_ take all her pain, has slight shadows under his eyes from the strain of it. “Daddy, this is Conor.”

Peter cradles the chubby infant close to his chest, rocking instinctively, his expression somewhere between thrilled and dumbstruck. “Conor,” he repeats, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Lover of wolves. Really, Stiles?”

She shrugs. “I liked it before I knew the meaning. And it suits him.”

Peter looks down at his perfect, wonderful son, and he has to agree.

 


End file.
